


Wildlings, Wild Things and Giant Fucking Cats

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grantaire is a hard-core Sansa Stan, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:30:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As usual, Bahorel is a sprawling mass of limbs splayed out in all directions, draping himself massive and feline across the couch. And as usual, Feuilly is taking up far less space that it should be possible for him to take up with legs that long, wedged against an armrest and idly smoking. And as usual, Grantaire is twisted around himself at impossible, non-Euclidean angles that do not exist on the mortal plane, alternating nips of whatever it is he keeps the dented metal flask that they’ve never seen him without, and the open beer in front of him, because life is short, and you have to die of something, and anyway, Charles Baudelaire says to be drunk, Jehan told him so.</p><p>Although that’s probably not what he meant at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildlings, Wild Things and Giant Fucking Cats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [truethingsproved](https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/gifts).



As usual, Bahorel is a sprawling mass of limbs splayed out in all directions, draping himself massive and feline across the couch. And as usual, Feuilly is taking up far less space that it should be possible for him to take up with legs that long, wedged against an armrest and idly smoking. And as usual, Grantaire is twisted around himself at impossible, non-Euclidean angles that do not exist on the mortal plane, alternating nips of whatever it is he keeps the dented metal flask that they’ve never seen him without, and the open beer in front of him, because life is short, and you have to die of something, and anyway, Charles Baudelaire says to be drunk, Jehan told him so.

Although that’s probably not what he meant at the time.

There’s a pop and a click and a groan as Grantaire cracks his neck, and twisting his face away from the craggy shores of Dragonstone, slowly being battered away by waves on the TV screen, says “So. Conan. As the resident expert on _Homo rufus maculosus_ , the greater spotted Ginger, and related species: Ygritte, Melisandre, or Sansa?”

He tilts the bottle to his lips and adds “I mean, of course, Ygritte or Melisandre, since I will not hear words spoken against Sansa Stark in my presence.”

“Fuck you.” But all the same, Bahorel brings a hand to his mouth and bites down on the pad of his thumb the way he does when he’s thinking (the tip of Feuilly’s cigarette flares, suddenly bright) “Melisandre.”

The TV glows orange. The gods of Dragonstone are burning, and Grantaire cackles, flashing a crooked grin at Feuilly. “Ygritte, my love, kissed by fire, you have _competition_. Are you planning on going for the throat, or the threesome?”

Feuilly draws the cigarette slowly, slowly from his lips. “Do you ever wonder,” he says evenly “if Sansa still thinks about Lady sometimes?”

“Oh, you _evil_ son of a _bitch!_ That was _completely_ uncalled for. Fuck’s sake. You,” Grantaire, unfolded, rolls onto his stomach and glares up at Bahorel “are fucking a soulless monster. I hope it’s worth it.”

Really, Grantaire should know better.

Bahorel arches both eyebrows, smirking and starts in with “So, you know that fucking thing he does when he’s got a cigarette in his mouth, and he–”

“I hate both of you.”

Feuilly scoffs and the corners of his lips twitch, and Bahorel throws Grantaire a lazy half-salute.

And that would be the end of it, on an ordinary night, but tonight they’re playing the Drinking Game of Thrones, which means that you drink for “Winter is Coming” and “A Lannister always pays his debts”, and twice for every “Khaleesi” or “Bastard”. If Cersei drinks, you drink, and you finish every time that Jon Snow knows nothing (toasting every time Joffery Lannister gets what’s coming to him goes without saying).

In the Drinking Game of Thrones, you either win, or you die, and honestly, death is looking more and likely every second, especially as Grantaire decides every “The night is dark and full of terrors” merits an attempt to steal Feuilly’s cigarette so he can burn them all away.

None of them believe much in rules, but are certain things which are not done.

You do not talk about Fight Club. You do not ask Bahorel where he goes the nights he stays out alone. You do not mention Grantaire’s drinking.

You do not _ever_ come between Feuilly and his cigarettes.

Grantaire is fast, snaking one arm up and out, rolled halfway onto the couch. Feuilly is faster; he arcs backward and snaps a heel into Grantaire’s chest, driving him backward into Bahorel.

“Mother _fucker_!” and then Bahorel has an arm around Feuilly’s waist and another on his bicep, wrenching them both off the couch and onto the floor as Grantaire drags himself to higher ground. Feuilly is faster, faster than Grantire, but Bahorel is in fact, a fucking force of nature, even with Feuilly’s knee pressing into his stomach and sliding steadily lower every second.

But Bahorel is also in fact, a giant fucking cat, and there’s place you can grab at the back of his neck, where the hair is short and cob-web fine and slides like smoke through your fingers, to make him go completely boneless. Feuilly has it memorized.

“ _Enough_ ” he growls, cigarette crushed to a grey smear under the hand not twisted in Bahorel’s hair, forcing his head back and his chin up. Bahorel’s eyes are half-closed and the voice that crawls up out of his bared throat is rough, and breathless.

“ _Fuck_ you”

Feuilly inches his knee lower, pressing down. The muscle jumps in his throat as Bahorel inhales sharply.

“Right. Well, you two kids have fun then, I’ll just…” Grantaire rubs a hand along his jaw, chewing on his lip the way he does when he’s nervous and pushes himself up off the couch with a sheepish grin. He laughs (and if he’s flushed, just a little, it’s really just the alcohol, is all). “Try not to stay up too late, lovelies, you’re growing boys and you need your rest.” And he edges towards the door.

Feuilly’s fingers have gone loose, stroking absently back and forth along the nape of Bahorel’s neck, and he thinks to himself that Grantaire spends too much time like that, on the edges of things. And he thinks to himself that that’s… the alcohol makes it hard it really think, but he thinks that it’s not right. It’s not fair, and Feuilly thinks–he _knows_ that you don’t just let things that aren’t right happen, not if you can do something about it. Even if you can’t. He looks down at Bahorel, head tilted to one side. He doesn’t say anything, but it only takes a second, less, for

Feuilly to raise his eyeborws slightly

            as Bahorel’s draw down, questioning

                        and Feuilly’s eyes dart towards Grantaire’s slowly-retreating back

                                    and there’s suspension, time stopped, frozen then Bahorel’s shoulders shift and _yeah, okay_.

Okay.

“Hey” Feuilly calls, halting Grantaire in his tracks. “You forgot something, jackass”

“The fuck are you–” Grantaire starts to ask, picking his way back towards them, but it gets lost in the _whuff_ of breath slammed out of his chest as Bahorel hooks a hand around the back of his knee and _pulls_ Grantaire down, flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

“Jesus fuck, what the fuck was that for?” He moans, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Bahorel laughs, even as Feuilly jabs him in the side with a muttered “sadistic douchebag” and twists around to fold his freckled hands over Grantaire’s.

“And you, you’re a fucking moron” he drawls. Grantaire bites down on his lip the way he does when he wants something.

“Damn” he says, “you have a _fuckton_ of freckles this close.”

It’s…it’s not _bad,_ just new; Grantaire has some of the same ridges and whorls on his hands as Bahorel, the jagged leftovers of fights, but he’s clearly more careful and there are other calluses, ones that Feuilly can recognize on his own hands,  the stain of hours spent with a brush or a pencil. And he dosen’t taste the same.

It’s not like Feuilly has a _type_ , really, but Grantaire, he thinks, sliding his hands under Grantaire’s T-shirt to map the distance between hip and ribs, the angle where his waist dips in. Grantaire has good geometry. Good lines.

He just doesn’t ever shut up.

“So does he always do that when you grab his hair?” Grantaire breathes, curling and uncurling his hands along Feuilly’s shoulders. Feuilly doesn’t answer, but his mouth twitches, just a fraction of an inch. Grantaire’s eyes light up and he laughs “Oh my God, I wanna try”, leaning over Feuilly’s shoulder just as Bahorel starts to shift impatiently.

“If he hits you and you bleed on the carpet, I’ll fucking kill you myself” Feuilly warns.

Grantaire pounces, and for a minute, they look like they always do, scrabbling and pushing at each other’s arms and chests (Grantaire still in his T-shirt, Bahorel without his) until Grantaire manages to reach around behind Bahorel’s head and tug. Bahorel gasps, making a sound that a much braver man, willing to overlook the low pitch, might call a mew as his eyes flutter shut.

“Oh my _God”_ Grantaire cackles, and he’s halfway to humming “What’s New, Pussycat” when Bahorel twists, flipping Grantaire onto his back and holding there with his arms pinned over his head.

“Fuck. You.” Bahorel flashes his teeth triumphantly and starts to pull away, point proven. But Grantaire crooks hands up and grabs at Bahorel’s wrists before he can.

Grantaire swallows. His pupils are wide and blown, black swallowing blue and he gnaws at his swollen lip and says “Can you just…” He doesn’t say anything else, but they have an understanding, head tilts and eyebrows to talk to each other when the bar fights get to loud for words. So there’s moment when

Grantaire looks up, locks eyes and almost flinches but doesn’t

                and Bahorel’s eyebrows draw up, questioning

                        as Grantaire’s tongue skates along the edge of his teeth, and his chin jerks up

                                               and they both feel the pulse pounding, blood pooling, and it’s gonna leave a fucking mark tomorrow, but _fuck it, if you say so._

_Yeah, well, I do._

Bahorel snorts, tightening his hands around Grantaire’s wrists, and shifts to one side to make way for Feuilly. Grantaire’s the only one still fully-dressed, but Bahorel and Feuilly are both still in jeans, and it’s starting to become fucking problem (“Heh. _Fucking_ problem” Grantaire snickers into Bahorel’s arm at the words, letting out a high whine when Feuilly digs blunt nails into his hip in retaliation) and there’s an awkward, two minute fumble, all of them pulling and swearing at denim and buttons.

The rest is rough, and sloppy, hot mouths and stubble scraping over skin. Bahorel’s hands are heavy on Grantaire’s wrists the whole time, except when Feuilly takes over, sliding up to replace him; Feuilly’s hands are stained red-yellow-blue with nicotine and paint, not as hard as Bahorel’s, but colder. Bahorel growls and bites down on Grantaire’s shoulder as Feuilly clambers over him, drawing a choked “ _Fuck!”_ from Grantaire.

Above him, Feuilly grins.

It’s too much fucking effort to untangle themselves afterwards, so they just stay like that, piled on top of each other like cats, loose limbs splayed out.

Every once in while there’s yelp when Bahorel elbows Grantaire in the chest for being an asshole with too-sharp shoulders, or Feuilly swats them both upside the head for rummaging through his discarded jeans for a smoke.

“You’re both still jackasses. So you’re aware.” Grantaire yawns.

“Fuck you, fuckface!” from Bahorel, and a disbelieving scoff from Feuilly. Grantaire smirks.

“While your enthusiasm is _very_ gratifying, and I do appreciate the offer, I do, but you’re gonna have to give me a minute.”

“ _Fuck you_ ”

“Promise?”

But Bahorel’s a giant fucking cat, and he’s asleep with one arm flung over Feuilly’s chest.

Grantaire looks at Feuilly.

Feuilly looks at Grantaire.

Neither one of them looks at the door until noon the next day.

  
  



End file.
